


where do the good (rich) boys go to hide away

by niniadepapa



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Era, The OC au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:43:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniadepapa/pseuds/niniadepapa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>taking in a stray in newport beach might not be the best idea ingrid fisher has ever had, especially when said stray has a criminal record, a knack for trouble, and kind of a crush on the rich boy who lives next door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blondecrowns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondecrowns/gifts), [letterfromathief (sentbyfools)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=letterfromathief+%28sentbyfools%29).



> so this started as a five minute drabble and the horrible enablers that are amber and steph convinced me to add more so... here, more.

She steps out of the car, walking all the way around it until she’s standing on the sidewalk, frowning as she tries and fails at pulling the pack of cigarettes she keeps inside her pocket. She finally tugs it out from where it’s stuck, takes a cigarette and her lighter and closes her eyes as she takes the first drag, sighing in contentment even if it’s just for a second. There’s a noise coming from her right, and she looks over to the next house’s driveway, where a guy stands, reading something intently on his phone. She unabashedly stares: the dark unkempt hair, the scruff on his jaw and the leather jacket and boots ensemble that would probably cost enough for her to pay rent for a couple of years.

A fine specimen of a rich Newport kid, indeed. She huffs under her breath, taking a second drag, and that finally catches his attention, eyes snapping up from the phone to meet hers.

(His eyes are blue, by the way. Like, very blue.)  

He stands straight, surprised by the intrusion, no doubt. It makes her hide a chuckle under her breath. He squints his eyes at her, curious. “Who are you?”

Emma’s mind warres for a minute because, sadly, this is a loaded question. Who is she, indeed? She runs the possibilities in her head. _I’m Emma. I’m a lost girl, an orphan. I’m someone’s unwanted kid. I’m someone’s collateral damage. I’m no one, really._

She says neither.

The corner of her lips tug up in a feral smile, and she rakes her eyes up and down his frame, leering at him. “Whoever you want me to be.”

He actually shakes his head, taken aback, and adds a murmured “Wow” for good measure. Emma doesn’t really know how Newport Bitches act around guys like him here, but she’s willing to bet it’s not like _this_.

Then again, what does she know, really.

Silence stretches between them, and she lounges against Ingrid’s car, playing with the lit cigarette in her hand, staring at the swirling smoke and trying to stop conjuring scenarios of what might be taking place inside the house with Ingrid’s relatives. She wouldn’t put it past them if they plain kicked her out.

It wouldn’t be the first time somebody didn’t give her a chance, so. She’s pretty sure she’d recover. (She had no other choice, really.)

The neighbor’s lilting voice catches her by surprise - _again_. It’s slightly annoying, and so is the curious look he gives her. “Do you mind if I borrow a cigarette?”

She considers him for a couple of seconds and, what the hell, he’s hot, and he’s there, and he’s obviously kind of interested, even if she knows he probably shouldn’t. It’s not like she’s sticking around. She walks over to him, fishing her pack of cigarettes and taking one, holding it out to him. He picks it up, and it’s pretty obvious he thinks she’s gonna offer him her lighter, but she’s tired after the day she’s had, and here’s this pretty guy with his pretty blue eyes, and she leans in, the tip of her lit cigarette between them. He smiles when he notices her plan, and tilts his head until his own cig lights up after touching hers. Their faces get closer, and she can see now the scar touching his cheek, and she wonders where the hell he got it. It’s the kind of scar people from her neighborhood sport thanks to bar brawls and other unsavory incidents, but she wouldn’t have pegged this guy as the kind to start any kind of trouble. This is Newport, for fuck’s sake. His biggest problem probably is not being able to decide which Ivy League he wants to get into.

He smiles again, pulling back from her but keeping close enough to maintain a conversation. From the way his fingers cradle the cigarette, she knows it’s not the first time he’s smoked. “What are you doing here? The truth, this time?”

She considers her options, blowing out puffs of smoke, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. She hasn’t really had any time to prepare any story with Ingrid - they’re more of the ‘improvise and go with the flow’ kind - so she doesn’t know what she’s even supposed to tell him.

As the pessimistic bitch that she is, she wings it, because, again, it’s not like she’s staying here for more than a night. Maybe not even that long.

“The truth?” She sighs, thinking of the best way to sum up the last week. “My… now ex boyfriend, I guess, got me in trouble for stealing some watches worth ten grand. He ran away but called the cops on me, so I was thrown in prison for his crimes. Miss Fisher got me out,” she finishes, cocking her head to the side and flicking a few ashes off the end of her cigarette, as if it was no big deal. As if this wasn’t the fucking mess that was her life now.

That had always been, to be honest.

He stands there, practically staring right through her with those silly bright eyes, and Emma’s now kind of regretting telling him the actual truth, and then he’s grinning until freaking _dimples_ show up on his cheeks, and she’s a goner. “You’re the cousin from Boston, aren’t you?”

The smile that had been blossoming on her face at his grin freezes. She would never admit it, but… it kind of hurt. Which is ridiculous, because she doesn’t even _know_ this guy, and it’s stupid that he’d even have the power to hurt her feelings, but, well. It hurts that her story is so fucking messed up that people can’t even take it seriously. At least not rich kids from Newport.

She takes a last drag from her cigarette and throws it to the ground, stepping on it a little more viciously than what’s proper and smudging the ashes all over the perfectly prim and pristine driveway. Her very own tiny mark on Newport Beach. “Right,” she tells him, because that’s all he’ll remember of her. The Fisher’s blonde niece that tried to hit on him once and feed him a story that he obviously didn’t buy.

Emma may remember the encounter differently, though. She may remember the Fisher’s neighbor’s grin, or maybe the way their cigarettes had kissed while they stayed close enough to do so too, but didn’t, because they’re worlds apart.

It’s not like he’d want to know the truth about her, either.


	2. parties, fights, oh my!

Emma, somehow, makes it to the Fisher’s house, where Ingrid lives along with her sister Gerda and two nieces, Elsa and Anna. Elsa turns out to be Emma’s age, whereas Anna is a year younger. She also learns pretty much every detail about the both of them, their family, their house, their traditions, their love for chocolate, their pet history, their non-existent friends at the school they attend at Newport, and pretty much everything Emma should (or shouldn’t?) know about someone in a hour.

Anna _does_ like to talk.

Elsa, on the other hand, is more observant and quiet, studying Emma’s faces through Anna’s incessant chatter. She smiles at Emma, and quietly adds some input herself. Emma likes her. She likes Anna too, sure, but she’s never been the bubbly-non-stop-talking person, so it can be a little… overwhelming to be around her for long periods of time, to say the least.

Gerda looks at Emma like she’s hiding a grenade under her bra and is about to set the entire neighborhood on fire just for the kicks. Emma is used to that look, so she’s not as bothered by it as she could be.

They usher her into the pool house, where so it happens she'll be staying, and Emma waits until they give her a little privacy and settle for the night to pinch her arm and believe that, yeah, _this_ is happening. This is her room for the night: an entire miniature of a mansion by an azure pool that’s so inviting she’s tempted to throw herself in in the middle of the night. She doesn’t, though: as soon as she closes her eyes, she falls asleep, the events of the past days finally catching up to her and not being able to rid herself of the feeling that she’s safe.

(That she’s home.)

(But that’s ridiculous, of course.)

The next day, Elsa and Anna insist that she comes with them to the beach. Emma tries to get out of it because it’s not like she has come prepared with any kind of swimwear whatsoever, but Elsa lets her borrow a bikini and a towel (both blue, which makes her arch an eyebrow but she doesn't say anything) and they spend most of their day enjoying the sun and rolling around in the sand like children.

Emma doesn’t recall a time she’s smiled for such a long time.

Elsa and Anna don’t pry much about her life, even though Emma can tell they are curious, and whenever Anna looks like she’s gonna ask, Elsa discreetly pinches her, which Emma appreciates. It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell them; it’s that she’s afraid they’ll think less of her if they hear about it. Hers is not a pretty story, definitely not the fairytale they seem to be living here in Newport.

When they get back to the house, though, Ingrid tells them they have some fancy auction to attend, and before Emma can slip away to her current palace by the pool and pretend she doesn’t exist, Anna has already clapped her hands over her and Elsa’s arms and ushered them to her room so they can try out dresses. Emma sends Ingrid a pleading look, and scowls when she notices Ingrid’s amused smile as she is dragged away to Anna’s bedroom. Not only that, but she shows up later and leaves a beautiful gown on the bed, motioning for Emma to try it on.

When she comes out of the bathroom and looks at herself in the mirror, Emma has the most inexplicable feeling: She doesn’t recognize herself. Ingrid comes in with a make up case and a pair of earrings, and gasps when she sees her.

“You look fantastic. I knew it’d look good on you.” She comes to stand behind Emma, parting her hair and putting it over her shoulder. She grins at her in the reflection. “Way better than a hoodie, huh?”

“Don’t hate on the hoodie.”

Ingrid laughs, and picks up a brush from the vanity and goes to brush Emma’s hair, and out of instinct, Emma flinches. Ingrid halts, and her gaze meets Emma’s on the mirror once more. Her expression softens, and her hand reaches out to touch her shoulder. “No unbrushed hair allowed in Orange County, I’m afraid,” she says with a small smile, and Emma mimics her, and lets her go on.

When they arrive to the party, it’s on full swing, and she gets almost run over by a waiter that offers her some over the top _canapes_ whose ingredients she can’t even pronounce. Elsa comes up beside her and sweeps her gaze over the patio, where Rolex-wearing men and perfectly manicured women hold flutes of champagne and Riojas like they were born to.

“Welcome to the dark side,” Elsa tells her, and Emma snorts.

“In sunny California? Who’d have thought.”

It turns out that news run like wildfire in Newport, and the new face in town gets much more attention than Emma would enjoy. Smartly-dressed CEOs and smiling housewives keep coming up to her, asking about her life in Boston ( _What?_ ), and Emma spins one too many tales once she figures out they aren’t even paying attention to what she says, but rather they just _really_  enjoy hearing themselves talk.

Elsa and Anna rescue her not long after, offering her a soda - Emma just scrunches up her nose and accepts it, she hadn’t really pegged the sisters as scotch drinkers - and motioning her in the direction of an empty table to retire. She sits with them, and Anna suddenly goes still in her seat as her eyes land on the other side of the patio. Emma follows her gaze to see a group of people who’ve just entered the place, owning it as if this was their everyday scene. For all that she knew, it very clearly was.

Elsa murmurs in her ear, “The cool kids gang. They all attend our school. The blond on the right is Kristoff - Anna’s been pining for him since we were in kindergarden.”

“Not true.”

“Yes true.”

Emma arches an eyebrow. “Very mature.”

Anna slaps her arm to stop her chuckle and lowers her voice as she discreetly points at each one of the group. “That one over there is Mulan.” She laughs when Emma almost chokes on her soda as she hears the name, because seriously? Do parents in Newport hate their kids that much? “I know. She’s dating Ruby Lucas, the brunette on her arm.”

Emma studies them and nods. Anna motions to a trio of girls all wearing black, bright, red lipstick and, in Emma’s opinion, quite the holier-than-thou attitude. “The other three on their right are literally the Mean Girls™ in this place. Regina, Cruella and Mal.”

Emma’s proud to say she knew they looked like trouble. “And the guys?”

“We already told you about Kristoff, Anna’s future husband,” Elsa comments, and it’s her turn to earn a kick to her shin under the table.

“Shut up!”

“Whatever you say,” Elsa says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. She points to the guys huddled around this Kristoff kid, wearing ties and tuxedos like they had just come out of a GQ catalogue. “With him are Graham, Robin, Will and David.”

Emma’s heart leaps when she sees a familiar figure stride towards the group and pat Kristoff on the back, grinning widely as they cheer his entrance. The boy she talked to the previous night, the one she never thought she’d see again.

“What about tall, handsome and blue eyes?” She asks.

Elsa gives her a look. “How do you even know he has blue eyes? We’re 20 feet away from them.”

“I met him last night. While your aunt talked to you,” she says, trying to appear nonchalant. Elsa and Anna give her identical looks of disbelief, open-mouthed and jaw-slacked.

“You talked to Killian? We’ve been neighbors for years and I have talked to him twice, and I’m pretty sure it mostly consisted of monosyllables,” Anna says, amazed. She shakes her head, and briefly explains: “Anyway, he’s Killian Jones. Captain of the soccer team, your overall jock cliché.”

Emma gulps the rest of her soda, resting her hand on the mantlepiece and clicking her fingers disinterestedly on her glass. A Newport born and bred jock? What a delight. “Good to know.”

They keep to themselves for most of the dinner, until the very end when a crowd of waiters set up a stage where the charity auction is bound to take place. Emma finds herself observing everybody who’s a part of it, and is not too surprised to find out that both Killian and his posse of teammates are in charge of presenting most of the articles. At one point, while he’s upstairs, he declares that he needs an innocent hand to take a piece of paper out of a bowl, and before she can somehow blend herself amongst the crowd his eyes have landed on her. Instead of being taken aback by her presence, he grins unapologetically, and she glares at him, shaking her head in warning, but of course he ignores her.

“I see an innocent enough looking angel who might be of assistance.” Instead of asking her upstairs - thank God for small mercies, she’s not that used to walking around on heels and she’s not too keen on the idea of falling on her ass in front of all these people - he walks down the stage and goes over to her, holding out the bowl for her. She scowls, and at his answering smirk, she rolls her eyes and picks a paper at random without as much fuss as she can manage. She fishes it out of the bowl and hands it back to him, and the way his fingers brush hers when he takes it from her is everything but random.

She breathes in slowly through her nose, trying not to appear too affected - because, spoiler, she isn’t - and he clears his throat and focuses back on the auction, reading the lucky number aloud and getting on with the show. He leaves her side and offers whatever fancy prize rich people win in these things, and she wills her heart to stop racing, because admitting the fact that she’s nervous after a guy simply touched her hand is beyond ridiculous.

Elsa discreetly elbows her, and she’s never been happier that she’s been brought back from spiraling thoughts. “You’ve been here less than 24 hours and you’re already making enemies,” she comments quietly, jerking her chin towards a table at their left, where Regina, Queen Bee extraordinaire, is staring daggers at her.

“Story of my life,” Emma declares with a shrug, even though curiousity gets the best of her. “What’s going on there? Are they together?”

Elsa arches an eyebrow. “Regina and Killian? They were fuck buddies. Now she’s with Robin, but who knows, for all we know they might still be fucking behind his back.”

“Wonderful.”

“I know right? As I said: welcome to the dark side.”

In all honesty, Emma truly doesn’t think Killian would do that to his supposed friend, if the way she had seen them interact earlier meant something. But then again, she couldn’t really know. She didn’t know him, and he didn’t know her.

(It’s not like he’d want to know her, anyway.) (He’d be better not getting to know her.)

The nightmare is over and Emma is following the sisters out of the house as Gerda and Ingrid thank their hosts - whose name Emma hadn’t even bothered to learn - when someone touches her shoulder from behind, and she almost jumps out of her skin. She turns and her eyes widen as she finds Anna’s crush, Kristoff whatever, standing there smiling.

“Hey! Emma right?” he says, and Emma’s still in such shock that he’s talking to her that she can’t even muster the surprise over the fact that he’s bothered to learn her name. “Listen, we’re all going over to Vic’s beach house. You wanna come?”

Emma just loves how these dudes drop out names like she’s supposed to know them or something. “Uh…” she starts, and he points to the car they’re leaving in and gestures for her to follow them. She stays rooted to her spot, asking herself if this is really happening, until she grabs Elsa’s arm and pulls her to her side in alarm.

“Hey, so your sister’s crush just invited us to go to some dude’s beach house’s party right now.”

Elsa studies her, lips thinning. “He invited us? Or you?”

“Do you wanna get technical with me here? This is Anna’s chance.”

The blond braid hanging over Elsa’s shoulder sways as she shakes her head, wringing her hands together over her lap. “I don’t know, Emma…”

“Come on. Let her live a little,” Emma insists. It’s not like she’s overly eager of going to some rich kid’s party or something, but after hearing the longing in Anna’s voice whenever she talked about this boy and their obvious not-so-social life, it wasn’t like they had anything to lose, right?

She waits until Elsa sighs and puts her hands up in defeat. “Okay, I’ll go get her.”

 

* * *

 

If they had told her they’d be attending a Ke$ha’s music video, she’d have definitely believed it. The party at the beach house lacks nothing from smoking pot, drinking, making out, and teenagers practically humping in the middle of the dance floor.

Emma looks around her, torn between feeling amazed and bored - there’s nothing unfamiliar here, nothing she hasn’t seen before from where she comes.  She tells the girls: “Welcome to the _real_ dark side, ladies.”

“You’re telling me,” Elsa snorts, and Emma snakes her arms around hers and Anna’s, guiding them to the kitchen and finding a beer for herself in the fridge. She sees how Anna sniffs whatever there is in the punch bowl, and quietly advises her not to try it, and offers them both a beer just in case. At one point, Anna claims she needs to go to the restroom, and Elsa shoots Emma a panicked look that makes her suppress a chortle. Elsa can be way more overprotective when it comes to Anna than their own mother, which is surprising but at the same time tugs at Emma’s heartstrings.

(She’s never had a sister. She’s always wished she had one.)

Emma shoos them away, calling back over her shoulder to come back find her when they’re done and not to act too surprised if they happen to find a threesome taking place in the bathroom. She roams around the living room aimlessly, smiling at whoever smiles at her first and glaring at those who give her the stink eye. She notices Killian and his friends sitting at one of the couches, and wonders if the rest of his team keeps a count on how many glasses he’s already chugged, or if they’ve even noticed that he carries a flask in the pocket of his jacket from which he sometimes takes generous swigs.

Another piece of the puzzle that is the boy from the next house: He drinks.

_A lot._

She had wondered if he’d approach her again tonight after their moment during the auction, and to her surprise he doesn’t wait too long to do so. He shows up at her side in the kitchen when she’s looking for something to eat - something that doesn’t make her feel like she’s throwing away 400$ in a bite like at the party. There _must_ be panchitos somewhere in Orange County, right?

“Hey,” he says as he slides next to her, and she looks at him over her shoulder as she stands on her tiptoes to reach into an upper shelf in search of something edible.  

“Hey yourself.”

Something grazes her side and she looks down to find a bag of Doritos enticingly moving up and down in front of her. She smiles, and sits on the kitchen counter to help herself a good fistful. Killian beams at her. “So what do you think of Newport?”

She considers her answer. “I think I can get in less trouble where I come from.”

“You have no idea,” he claims, and Emma wonders about the darker tone of his statement. Something catches her eye, though - or rather, someone else’s eyes, who’re focused on her practically glowing in fury.  

“Your girlfriend didn’t seem to enjoy your little stunt earlier,” she tells Killian, taking her beer and taking one long pull. She doesn’t miss the way his gaze focus on her neck as she gulps, and she licks her lip once she’s done, enjoying a bit too much the way she affects him.

 _Men_. So gullible, really.

“My girlfriend?” He asks, shaking his head as if coming out of a trance. She nods in Regina’s direction, who’s whispering furiously in one of her little worker’s ear.

“Bitchface over there.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

She hides a snort behind her hand as she steals another dorito from his bag. “Sorry. Just assumed by the way she’s been staring daggers in my direction through the rest of the night.”

He grins at that, and she exhales sharply when he moves closer to her, his entire side touching her leg so that his mouth is right by her ear and his expensive cologne invades her nostrils. If it were some other rich pretty jock, she’d feel repulsed by it. With him, she feels the staggering urge to come closer to him, touch his neck and run her nose down his cheek, feel the rough scruff against her skin.

“Between you and me? That’s her face most of the time,” he tells her, and the moment is broken when she starts laughing. He pulls back, grinning like a fool, and she shakes her head, still laughing.

“What a gentlemanly thing to say. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“She’s not on my bad side!”

“Then I pity her if she ever does.”

He cocks his head to the side, giving her a measuring look. “You’re too sassy for your own good.”

“Am I?” She says (and oh God, is she _flirting_ with him?)

“Uh huh.”

(Is he flirting _back_?)

“Does that put me on your bad side too?”

(Okay, she’s most _definitely_ flirting now.)

“I don’t really know you that much to make that decision,” he explains,  and before she can step another level up in the ‘wow are we flirting’ scale, she sees him fishing his flask from the inner pocket in his jacket and taking a pretty long gulp. The fact that he barely makes a sound or winces as he pulls it away and puts it back is a telltale sign that he’s used to the strong stuff.

“That’s gonna be one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” she remarks, and something akin to unsettlement flashes through his face, but he masks it soon enough, shrugging and offering the doritos back at her.

“Maybe. It wouldn’t be that bad if you nursed me through it.”

Going back to the flirting to evade more questions… nicely played. “Keep dreaming, buddy,” she says with an eye-roll. He smirks, and she feels how the heat of his body comes closer as he bends over her to take her beer and take a sip of it.

“I most certainly do,” he drawls, eyes sparkling at the blush on her cheeks.

 _Fuck_. Who’d have thought these rich kids could be such _good_ players.

“There you are!” Someone shouts, and Emma almost falls from the counter. Killian had thankfully already drunk the last of the beer, because the bottle rolls at Emma’s side, and she doesn’t even want to know how much the dry cleaning of the dress she’d borrowed from Ingrid would cost.

Killian nods politely at the new addition to their… well, duo, now trio. “Regina.”

Queen Bee herself saunters towards them until she’s propped her arm over Killian’s shoulder, and Emma wonders if it’s a trick of the light or if her black nails do in fact scratch a mark on his neck. “And who’s this?” She says as she turns a scowl in her direction. Killian pulls back from her as subtly as he can.

“This is Emma, Ingrid Fisher’s cousin.”

Regina’s lip curl in all her upper class privileged glory, staring at her as if she were a rat coming out of the filthiest sewer.

(She wouldn’t be _that_ wrong, if she in fact learned where Emma came from.)

“Aren’t you a little young to be her cousin? You look like you could be Elsa’s bastard sister,” she comments, and Killian looks appalled.

“Regina…”

Biting back a reply, Emma jumps back to her heels and leaves the counter behind. She has had to deal with bullies and people who’ve made it clear how below them she is all of her life, she most certainly doesn’t need prince Cosmo over here to help. Then again, she can’t really punch this bitch in the face and get away with it, so she just cuts him off. “It’s okay, I was already leaving anyway. Nice seeing you again, Cosmodude,” she tells him, and doesn’t miss both the regret as she leaves and the amused glint at her nickname.  

She goes looking for Elsa and Anna but can’t find them, and wonders what the hell is keeping them. She’s growing tired of rich asses who can’t control their hormones or hold their liquor - or, in some cases, who can hold it too well. If she had thought that her run-in with Miss Rebitch back there had been the worst of the night, she had really deluded herself.

Kristoff, also known as Anna’s kindergarden crush, shows up and makes no secret of hitting on her like there’s no tomorrow. It starts with a few pick up lines that she mostly rolls her eyes at as she stares over his shoulder in a very obvious ‘I’m not interested’ way, but to her chagrin he comes up and puts his hand on her hip, leaning in closer than she’s comfortable with. She leans back, pushing him on the chest and a threat to cut his balls already on the tip of her tongue, when she sees Anna and Elsa over his shoulder, mirrored shocked expressions on their faces. What’s worse is the hurt that crosses Anna’s, who slips away from Elsa’s grasp and comes up to Emma with decision in her step, even though Emma can tell she’s taken at least one drink from her slight stumbling.

“Anna, it’s not what you…” she starts, but Anna’s not having any of it.

“Really? I tell you _all day_ about this and that’s how you repay me?” She screams, and if Emma felt bad before, the way her voice breaks does her in.

“If you’d only listen to me for a second…”

“Why don’t you go back to Chino? There are some really nice cars in the parking lot for you to steal,” she screams, and Emma’s not sure if it’s the shame coursing hard and fast through her veins that makes her think the only sound after Anna’s accusation is the Pitbull song playing in the living room and the mad beating of her heart inside her chest.

And the whispers. Those start soon enough.

Kristoff recovers from his shock too, staring at her with something that looks a whole lot like contempt, and a part of Emma’s brain begs for Anna to seriously reconsider her crush on this douche.  “Holy shit. You’re from _Chino_?”

Here’s the thing: Emma’s a tough cookie. She can weather pretty much anything the world throws at her, or so she likes to tell herself. She’s been through some deep shit and then some, and still there’s something about being stared at and talked about in the middle of a mansion full of a bunch of loaded kids that makes her wish she had never been born. It comes pretty close to that time in second grade when Tim Nelson convinced everybody in their class to make fun of her for not having real parents to come pick her up to school, but this time it’s different. This time she has way more baggage to be ashamed of.

Anna’s left towards the shoreline, Elsa running quickly after her, and Emma runs on instinct: she shoves her hand in the purse Ingrid had lent her and she maniacally searches for a cigarette and her lighter as she leaves in the opposite direction, as far away from this place as she can get. In her haste, she bumps into Killian, and her face falls at the way his brows are pinched in confusion. She notices Ruby and Mulan behind him, who, in a very surprising turn of events, look sympathetic enough, whereas Regina smirks in her direction and fucking _waves_ , wiggling her fingers mockingly.

Three cigarettes, two catcalls from a drunk waterpolo player, and a few gulped back tears later, Emma decides it’s time to face the music and finally talk to Anna and Elsa. To her horror, she finds them trying to get some jerk off Anna, who keeps telling this Hans person to get his hands off her as she helplessly hits him in the chest.

Three punches, a bruised cheek, various scratches in arms and legs and a drive back home later, the three girls zombie-walk back to the pool house, barely a word exchanged through it all. When Emma had gotten to the fight, it’d been clear for the asshole that had tried to 'console' Anna after her display over Kristoff and Emma that there’d be no way he’d win against the crazy thief chick from Chino. It’d been over pathetically soon, and Emma hoped somebody would spread a proper rumor of what a wuss that Hans was - apart from a pervert, that is.

Anna falls on the couch in the pool house and flails her scratched arms around her. “That was one nice night out, don’t you think?” She says. Elsa and Emma exchange a look, and soon enough the three of them are giggling helplessly, bent over laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Anna smiles at Emma and takes her hand as Elsa looks at them softly from the bed, and Emma feels at peace for the first time since the night started.

After the two sisters have tiptoed their way back to their respective room back at the house, Emma goes outside to grab a smoke. It’s barely 3AM and she sits in silence, cross-legged by the pool, staring at her reflection and the bruise still marring her skin.

That’ll be fun to explain to Ingrid.

She takes a drag, dreading to admit to herself the truth: it _is_ very possible that her kind hostess might not be too thrilled about the girls’ night. Emma has been in her fair share of fights - bar brawls, punches at school, you name it - which had earned a not-very-good reputation amongst the foster families she’d been bounced around, and even in her neighborhood. The people in Chino just _knew_ not to mess with Emma Swan if they wanted to keep all of their teeth. She also knows that’s not the kind of person people like Ingrid or Gerda might want around their girls.  

A rather loud noise brings her out of her musings, and she jumps to her feet, running to the handrail from which she can see the front of the house. She gapes as she sees the car she had gone to the party in along with Elsa and Anna, and Vic and Kristoff getting out of it to unceremoniously drop a completely wasted out of his mind Killian Jones on his very doorstep. They fumble around for a minute, looking for something - probably his keys - but don’t waste too much time on it. They go back to the car and leave him there, lying on the floor like a ragged, very drunk, very attractive male doll.

Great.

Emma sighs, but her feet are already taking her outside of the house and to her sort-of neighbor. She tries his pockets and finds just his phone, his wallet - Killian Brendan Jones, huh - and his stupid flask, but no keys. She looks helplessly around her, but of course there’s nobody to ask help to - and furthermore, what would she even _say?_ She guessed that if his buddies hadn’t woken up his parents it was for a good cause - mainly, that they’d get up in arms if they found their son passed out from too much alcohol. She didn’t want to get him into trouble, stupid, rich, conceited, judgmental, attractive mess of a human being or not.

Her fingers move a strand of hair from his forehead, as softly as she can, but he still doesn’t move. He’s breathing, so that’s something, but it doesn’t leave her many choices. Slinking his arm over her shoulder, she grunts as she gets him to his feet and half-drags him to the Fishers’ house. By the slurring in her ear, she thinks she’s somehow half-awoken him by the time they get to the pool house, and she lets him fall on one of the pool chairs as gently as she can. She hits his cheek softly, trying to get him to wake up at least so she can make sure he hasn’t hurt himself or gotten into even more trouble than getting astronomically plastered. Finally, he comes to himself - just enough to slur her name at least.

“Swan?”

She sighs in relief. “Come on, let’s get you inside, but please don’t make any noise.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s 3AM, that’s why. Now shut up and come with me,” she says, and with a hand pressed to her lips to further her point, she helps him up to get into the pool house. She guides him to the bed, gingerly letting him plop down on the clean pearly white sheets Ingrid had taken out for her.  

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, running a hand down her arm, and she rolls her eyes. Drunken Jones is a charmer. How surprising.

“Right.”

His hand holds onto a strand of hair that’s fallen from her bun, twirling it around his finger in fascination. “Your hair is sunny. And your smile is like the sun. _You_ are the sun.”

She doesn’t fight the smile that curls her lips. He is a cute charmer, at least. “Okay, Shakespeare. Off with you,” she says after she’s settled him on the bed, grabbing a pillow for herself. He stops her by letting his finger leave her hair and trace the apple of her cheek until it follows the curve of her mouth.

“And your lips - they are begging to be kissed.”

She pauses, because cute charmer is one thing - cute and wanting to get some action charmer on the other hand...

“Are they now?”

He nods, and she doesn’t know when they’ve started whispering, or how she’s gotten so close to him, hands still curled around the pillow as she leans over him. “May I?” He asks, eyes never leaving hers as his fingers falls from her lips to cup her jaw.

Emma looks back, biting her lip. “Sure.”

And then she doesn’t know if it’s him who leans up or her who leans down, but they’re kissing. It’s nothing like the hot, tangled make-outs with one night stands she’s always favored, but barely a whisper of his mouth against hers, soft and lazy, that still manages to leave her breathless.

He runs his mouth down to press one, two, three kisses on her jaw, and then presses her forehead to his, closing his eyes. “Why’d you let me do that?”

Emma smiles sadly, and with a soft caress to his neck, she pulls away. “Because you won’t remember it tomorrow.”

“I won’t ever forget it for as long as I live,” he vows, but his voice is becoming slurry once more, and Emma bites back a chortle as she furrows in the blanket on the couch, searching for the position that will be less life-threatening.

“We’ll see,” she says, and with a yawn she adds quietly, “Sleep tight.”

She hears his murmured “Sweet dreams, Swan” and feels her eyes closing, the events of the day finally catching up to her and leading her to a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

There’s one thing she gets right: Gerda doesn’t like one bit their last stunt from their night out in Newport. There’s a heated discussion between her and Ingrid, one that Elsa and Anna join, even though they’re supposed to be in their rooms grounded after getting into a fight at an unsupervised party. Emma knows better than that: she’s already packed her baby blanket along with her pack of cigarettes and her box of childhood memories, and waits patiently for the verdict.

Gerda looks taken aback by her easy disposition at being kicked out of their place, and tries to explain her reasons, but Emma doesn’t let her finish. She says goodbye with a quiet “You have a lovely family, Miss Fisher,” and goes back to the main house to deal with Elsa and Anna’s.

They’re not taking it too well, it seems. Anna’s eyes brim with tears, which makes Emma’s heart seize in her chest - she’s never had someone being so upset by her leaving. Elsa hugs her tightly, and Emma winces when her fingers touch a still healing cut on her arm, and the three of them laugh at their shared battle scars.

“We’ll visit you,” Elsa promises, and Anna nods vehemently. Emma doesn’t say anything, just nods back and hugs them again, wishing them her best and telling them how glad she’s to have met them - and advises Anna to get over her crush on Kristoff, at least until he stops being an asshole.

Ingrid tells her to wait for her outside in her car, and Emma does so, focusing on every step she takes forward instead of what she’s leaving behind.

And then, she sees him.

He’s right at the same place where she first met him, and she’d think it quite serendipitous if not for the fact that life’s a bitch and there’s no such a thing as destiny. Or if there is, it most definitely won’t push her into the arms of the neighbor with the blue eyes.

That’s not in the cards for Emma Swan.

He looks up when he hears her walk down the driveway. “You’re alive,” she says, playing with her lighter as he approaches her, hands in his pockets and tips of his ears turning red.

“About that… I’m sorry you had to see me like that. You’re very kind for taking care of me,” he says, fiddling with his fingers. It’s cute, really, how embarrassed he seems, and she bites her lip to hide a smile.

“It was nothing.” She tilts her head to the side, contemplating if she should ask him or not, and before she can chicken out she says, “Is it something that happens frequently?”

His eyes don’t waver from hers, and she knows he knows what she’s asking. After seeing the state he was in last night, and how he’d gotten to it, she was right to be worried about it, even if it wasn’t really her business.  

“At very wild parties,” he admits, and Emma can read between the lines.

_Pretty much but that’s all I’m willing to admit._

“Right,” she drawls, and goes back to playing with her lighter and the strap of her backpack, swatting a sweaty curl that’s pressed to the side of her face. He stares at her with an amused expression, and jerks his chin at her backpack.

“Where are you off to?”

Her hands stop moving, and she breathes in slowly, thinking of her answer. For a second, she was going to say she was going home, but she catches herself before she does. Mainly because where she’s going it isn’t home.

He notices, but doesn’t say anything. She just shrugs and leans against Ingrid’s car. “Back,” she finally says. Killian's face doesn’t betray anything. It irks her, because she’s always been good at reading people - hell, she’s been good at reading _him_ since they met two nights ago, but now she doesn’t know if it’s regret, shame or indifference swirling in his eyes as he sees her.

(She doesn’t really know what she wants to see in them either.) (She doesn’t want to know if he doesn’t care that she leaves or not.)

He steps towards her until the tips of his shoes are touching hers, in that blessedly clean Newport ground, his expensive leather boots against her worn, beaten ones. “I hope to see you again,” he says. She fights back a choked laugh.

“Doubt that, but I hope so too.”

She’s still staring at their feet when suddenly she finds him inching closer, until his face is standing dangerously close to hers. She freezes, barely daring to breathe, until his lips touch the corner of her mouth. Somewhere in her muddled brain, she recalls something from Lit class about Barrie's Peter Pan and Mrs. Darling’s hidden kiss, right at the corner of her mouth, that only Peter gets to get.

(She wonders if it’s Killian the only one who can get hers.)

“What was that for?” She asks quietly, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, and his lips curl into a soft smile.

“I told you I wouldn’t forget about it.”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles nevertheless. “Asshole.”

He grins, and they both turn at the sound of the Fisher’s front door closing shut and Ingrid’s footsteps as she makes her way towards them. Killian focuses back on Emma and inclines his head, eyes glinting in the sunshine.

“Goodbye, Emma.”

“Goodbye, Killian,” she answers and her voice breaks, but his smile just turns impossibly softer.

When she’s inside Ingrid’s car, he’s still there, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own blurry eyes or the light coming through the windowpane, but he looks sad to see her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as this is based on the tv show, i will keep writing scenes here and there because well. these kids own me.


End file.
